


only you (can cool my desire)

by antithestral



Category: Marvel, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst and Porn, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23187346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: “Hang on here,” Cap stammered, “you weren't making those— those jokes to mess with me?”“Sure I was. Anyone ever tell you you blush like a Disney princess?”A shake of that blond head. “No,no— I mean, you didn't say what you said because I’m gay?”“...”“Tony?”“Because you'rewhat now?”“Because I’m—” Steve was squinting down at him, like some kind of awful ‘09 internet meme about small, confused puppies. Tony wanted to fling himself off the top of the Empire State. “Wait, you really didn't know.”“Well, shit, sweetheart,” Tony said, and his voice wasn't shaking, itwasn't, “if I’d known, they wouldn’t have beenjokes, would they.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 341





	only you (can cool my desire)

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be the beginning of this whole.......like multichapter fic, but i dont know where i wrote the outline and the summary,a nd i cnt be bothered to find out so. here. *shoves halfbaked AA porn at you* :(
> 
> title from bruce springsteen's i'm on fire.

Tony found the Captain in his bedroom, ostensibly waiting for him — which, you know, was very much not the usual. Steve didn't seek Tony out, not unless it was on Avengers business, and they’d just gotten through with a mission debrief from SHIELD, so that was out. Steve wasn't in uniform either, just sweatpants and one of those criminally tight t-shirts, the kind they didn't even make pornstars wear because they probably cut off circulation or something, and — and fuck, Tony had been staring too long, hadn't he?

“Well hell, Cap,” Tony drawled, stepping past the threshold and kicking the door shut behind him. “If all you wanted was a little one on one time in the bedroom, you could’ve said that to begin with,” and then, “Yes,” Steve said sharply, yes, he said, just like that, rising up off the edge of the bed, and Tony's whole brain stopped working.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

* * *

It had been such a stupid little jibe, was the thing, not even close to the worst thing Tony had ever said, and he’d forgotten about it three seconds after he'd said it in the first place.

There had been a couple of Cap fans in the line of fire, when the giant, malfunctioning penguin robots came climbing out the storm drains in Central Park, was how it started. Three idiot kids, too overwhelmed seeing their idol to actually get with the program and run away screaming like everyone else, and Hawkeye had alerted Cap about them loitering near the carousel. Predictably, Steve had charged in, herded them out of the way, except that was when one of the kids swooped in and—

Look, it wasn't like Steve’s reflexes weren't lightning-quick enough to have avoided it.

It's just that he had so completely not seen it coming, hadn't believed something like that could happen, which was how this kid, this teenage boy, blue-eyed and dakr-haired and skinny as a reed, ended up having more than enough time to lean over and land a smacker full on Cap’s astonished mouth, before scampering away with his buddies.

And sure, there was a conversation they could've had right then, about how that almost certainly qualified as assault. But Clint had wolf-whistled over comms like the actual grade-schooler he was, and everybody had gotten a brief, breathless laugh out of it, pumped up on adrenaline, while Tony firebombed the stupid waddling bots, trying to stop them before they got to the damn zoo, and stepped on the actual, stinkingpenguins.

“Ninety-five and killin’ it, Cap!” Tony cheered over the link. “Get it, hotpants!”

Steve had gritted his teeth, predictably. Tony could practically hear them grind over the link. “Keep the comms clear. And check their eyes for weaknesses.”

“You got it, boss-man. Hey, you know that one about the penguin who walked into a— Motherfucker, they shoot lasers from their eyes!!!”

“Check their joints, then. Widow, with me.”

Tony dove in, aiming a repulsor blast directly at the hinges that connected the head to the rounded body. Jesus, these were some ugly fuckin’ bots.

“I’m just sayin’ Cap, if I have teenagers coming on to me when I turn ninety-five--”

“--you’ll get your geriatric behind tossed in the can for statutory,” Steve retorted, and then sighed. “Area clear of civilians. Hawkeye, maybe try a sonic arrow. Widow, let’s get SHIELD’s containment unit closer. Iron Man, you know dealing with fans with a pain in the ass.”

“Oh Cap,” Tony drawled, and that hot low drag in his voice was of course totally inappropriate for a commlink open to all the rest of the Avengers, unless you were Tony Stark and had gotten rid of things like Modesty and Personal Shame back in the 90s when you were railing down enough lines of cocaine to form a Black Diamond slope. “If the sex is a pain in the ass, he ain't doin’ you right, baby.”

And then it had turned out that Hawkeye’s sonics did disable the stupid bots, and Tony had configured his suit to emit the frequency on blast, using Cap’s shield as an amplifier, and everyone had forgotten about his stupid quip.

* * *

Or so Tony had thought.

“You— What?” Tony stammered.

“That kind of talk— It needs to stop. It sets a bad example for the team.”

Tony blinked while his brain tried to reboot. What the fuck was Steve talking about. “What kind of talk?”

“The—” Steve glared down at Tony. There was a pale pink flush banding over his cheekbones. “Don't play dumb, Stark. It doesn't suit you.”

“I’m not playing dumb, I don't know what the fuck you're going on about, Rogers.”

“The...” and oh man, he was blushing now, properly, no two ways about it, the prettiest fucking thing Tony had ever seen, “the flirting. It's not right, Tony.”

And that sent a bucket of ice water coursing down his spine. It's not right. Tony could feel a sharp tightness draw over his face. “Not right,” he said blandly. “Why, Cap? Can't handle having a faggot on your precious team, is that it? Worried I won’t be able to stop myself from getting my filthy hands on you? No, no, don't worry,” he cut in when Steve’s jaw dropped in surprise, and he stepped into the guy's personal space with a sort of vindictive deliberateness, patted his shoulder, let his hand rest on that hard, defined stretch of muscle for just a second too long. “I’ll try to keep my mouth off your cock. It’ll be hard,” and the Captain looked gobsmacked, like he’d been slapped, and that sent a rush of angry pleasure through Tony, “but I’ll do my best. Anything else?”

“You— you—”

Tony smirked. It didn't quite reach his eyes. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” A beat. “Sorry, that too much for you? Man, I really need to put you in a room with Rumsfeld and Cheney, don't I. Who would've thought.”

“Tony. This isn't funny.”

Tony could feel the way his heart rate flew, the incandescent rage pouring off his skin. His smirk died. “Do you see me fucking laughing, Rogers?”

“I don't— I— Hang on here, you weren't making those— those jokes to mess with me?”

“Sure I was. Anyone ever tell you you blush like a Disney princess?”

A shake of that blond head. “No, no— I mean, you didn't say what you said because I’m gay?”

“...”

“Tony?”

“Because you're what now?”

“Because I’m—” Steve was squinting down at him, like some kind of awful ‘09 internet meme about small, confused puppies. Tony wanted to fling himself off the top of the Empire State. “Wait, you really didn't know.”

“Well, shit, sweetheart,” Tony said, and his voice wasn't shaking, it wasn't, “if I’d known, they wouldn’t have been jokes, would they.” And then Tony clicked his jaw shut, because holy shit, holy shit, he’d just hit on Captain America, just openly done that, he was going to die, he was three seconds from being murdered, Pepper and Rhodey were going to have their hearts broken all over again—

“What,” Steve asked weakly, and those summer blue eyes flicked down to his mouth, and then off to the side, a guilty little look that Tony knew so, so well.

Oh, he thought blankly, with a little throb of heat unspooling all through his chest, and then that voice in his head was talking again, that hellraiser Tony thought he had buried at seventeen, the one that had carried him through his parents’ death and Afghanistan, through the Bruce's disappearance and Obie’s betrayal, through a hole in the sky above New York, to the other end of the universe.

Steve was too tall for the usual thing, the grabbing-by-the-neck, and the softly murmured dirty talk, the lazy kissing in the backseat of a limo, maybe some champagne and some moonlight to help things along. And besides, Tony didn't think the usual thing would work on Steve anyway. It wasn't that they knew each other that well, because they didn't, but there was something about fighting side-by-side surrounded by giant radioactive penguin bots in Central Park, that fine-tuned your ability to see past the bullshit.

So he didn't do that.

He didn't grab Steve, barely even touched him, except for how he had somehow stepped closer, maybe they both had, and Tony's hand had found that ridiculously defined line of his waist, the ridge of that vee that haunted Tony in his dreams.

“Tony,” Steve murmured. His voice was low, a rough, gravelly scrape Tony had never heard before, and it went straight to his cock, curled fresh lines of heat through his veins.

Tony’s hand had somehow slipped under that amazingly tight t-shirt, rucked it up. He was stroking smooth, hot skin now, a steady continuous sweep of his thumb, and Steve wasn't stepping away. Wasn't even looking away, actually. His eyes had gone dark, and half-lidded, his lips had parted a fraction of an inch, and the way he looked…

The way he was looking at Tony, holy mother of Christ, like he was good enough to eat—

“Ball’s in your court, Captain,” Tony said, because what he actually really didn't want was to stretch up onto his toes, and kiss that hot, open mouth, and get decked in the face for his trouble. “What’re you gonna do ‘bout it?”

“I had some ideas,” Steve murmured, and their voices were so quiet, even though JARVIS had probably activated the locks, and they had the whole floor to themselves anyway.

“Oh yeah? Why don't you—” share with the class, Tony was going to say, but then Steve slid his palm across Tony’s jaw, and tipped his face a little higher, and then his eyes had fallen shut, and that perfectly soft mouth had touched his, and the whole world fell away.

Of course, Tony thought deliriously, kissing back just as soft and dark and wanting, of course Captain America was a faceholder, of course he did incredibly sappy things like that, just to fuck with Tony’s understanding of the laws of the universe. His calves bumped into something, and Tony made a soft, confused sound into that mouth, and Steve took the moment to slide his tongue in, hot and silken and hungry. Their kissing was growing rougher, out of control, Tony could feel his knees start to buckle, could feel the hot, hard stroke of Steve’s hands along his back, clutching his nape, hungrily palming his ass. He shifted a litttle, notched their hips together, and then pulled their mouths apart on a soundless inhale. God, he could feel it, his cock slotting against Steve’s, against the hard, firm bulge of it, unhampered by the sweats. But Steve had barely been interrupted, had moved to Tony’s jaw, to his neck, was biting a hungry noise into his throat.

Tony bucked against him, clutched those impossible shoulders, whispered, “Fuck, oh fuck, Steve, baby, you have to— you need to stop—”

Steve pulled away almost immediately, said, “What?” in his rough, bewildered voice, and Tony groaned; this time he did grasp the back of Steve's neck, because old habits were impossible to break, and hissed, “Don't actually stop,” right up against his mouth, before kissing him again, fucking that gorgeous mouth with his tongue, biting into those lips, until they were both sore and slick, messy with it. He tasted so good, was the thing. He tasted so—

“How the fuck do you taste so good?” Tony demanded, and realized the thing his calves had bumped up against was his bed, there had been a bed this whole time.

“Right back at you,” Steve replied, and thumbed at his throat, choking his air just enough that Tony’s mouth dropped open, and Steve could kiss him again, and oh, that dirty bastard, was that how they were gonna play it?

He let his knees collapse, dragged Steve down to the mattress with him, and that was--fuck, ridiculously good, all that serum-enhanced weight, pinning him down, that cock grinding against his, Steve's tongue in his mouth, his fingers practically digging bruises into Tony's ass.

“Are you— Please tell you're—”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled into the curve of his neck, and Tony found the elastic band of his pants, shoved them down hard when the fabric caught agaisnt the head of Steve’s cock, and oh sweet God, apparently the man had gone commando underneath, because it was suddenly his cock that Tony could see, hard and thickly veined and listing slightly to the left, and shit, shit—

“Holy fuck,” Tony mumbled, while a chorus of angels and the London Philharmonic started a symphonic orchestra in his head, because holy fuck, Steve was big.

He wrapped his hand around the head of his cock, thumb under the head, and wow, wow, okay, apparently this was a two-hand job, except for how Steve had closed his eyes, braced above Tony, and his hips were rutting forward, fucking into the tight clasp of his fingers, the head wet and shiny and Tony had never wanted anything in his mouth quite as badly as— “Yeah, that's it baby, come on,” Tony was saying, nonsense words, his own cock begging, aching for release, he was humping Steve’s thigh like a mentally deficient labradoodle, watching the wet, hungry thrusts of Steve’s cock, “Christ, I want to see you come, let me see you come, get it all over me, fuck, fuck Steve—”

Steve made this sound, this choked groan that felt like it had been wrenched out of him, and stilled, hips thrusting erratically, before spurting come all over Tony’s fist, over his t-shirt, drenching him in come, and Tony could smell it, could practically taste it, could feel the sweat dripping off of Steve’s forehead and onto his neck, and that was it, that was all it took. Tony dig his fingers into those rippling, beautiful quads, fucked that straining muscle, felt Steve lick a slow, torturous line up his neck, and he was coming too, with a barely restrained cry, hips arching off the bed like an overeager teenager instead of a grown man, stars going nova behind his eyelids, coming so hard he practically blacked out from it.

When he came back to himself, Steve had moved about twelve inches to the left, and settled face down into the mattress, totally wiped. Tony sympathized. He turned to look at him, only to find Steve was watching him already. His eyes were heavy, and there was a strange look on his face, an absent, curious expression.

So, Tony started to say, that was interesting. And then Steve would have said, That’s one word for it, or maybe, Is that what the kids are calling it these days? because he liked to play up the ninety-five year old angle, as if he wasn't actually, horrifyingly the youngest person on their team.

That was about when his phone rang.

* * *

“I gotta—” Tony started to say, and Steve waved a lazy hand. “Yeah, yeah, go on.”

The contact photo was flashing on his screen — Marissa Gold, Drubaker and Gold — and, shit, shit, Marissa was who had been planning to take with him to the charity auction tonight, on account of how they both had been invited anyway, and she was sarcastic and fun and conveniently gay, not that too many people were aware of that last fact.

He levered off the bed, and went to the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him before accepting the call.

“Tony!” Marissa chirped. “I just wanted to confirm: Are we still on for tonight?”

“Hey, Mar. I’m— I actually wanted to talk about that.”

* * *

Steve was sitting up, when Tony came back in, sweatpants back in place, texting someone on his phone.

“Hey,” Tony said, and suddenly this was— this was excruciating. It wasn't like Steve liked him, not even a little; you could fuck someone and still loathe them, Tony knew that better than anyone, had learned that lesson the hard way more than once.

“Hey,” Steve replied.

“So that was—”

“—Marissa Gold, I know,” Steve finished.

“You do. You do?”

Steve shrugged. His phone slid back into the pocket. He was standing up too. “We’ve met. She was fun.” Fun, Steve said, but with that flatness to his voice. “Look, I gotta head out, Natasha says there’s a recon mission off the coast of Chile. The cartels have upgraded to one-man stealth subs.”

“You're kidding.”

Steve chuckled bleakly. The set of shoulders was easy, relaxed, his hands buried in his pockets. “I wish. She wants some muscle, so.” He shrugged again. “You know, duty calls. You have a good night. Say hi to Marissa for me.”

“Marissa canceled actually,” Tony blurted, which was a lie, a lie, he’d asked Marissa if she wouldn’t mind going stag, because Tony had— had conjured up some bizarre, ridiculous fantasy of asking Steve to come with him, what the hell, what had he been thinking, and his eyes slid shut in pure defense.

Stupid, stupid, you fucking— He wants to leave. Let the man leave in peace, you pathetic, needy idiot.

“Oh.” Steve looked… blindsided. “I—”

And Tony rolled his eyes, and pasted on a smirk that would've fooled God and St. Paul. “Relax, Cap. It’s a big party. I’ll find some company.”

Steve's expression shuttered then, sudden and hard, the crack of it almost audible. “I’m sure you will,” he had said softly, and that was that, that was the end of it, Steve had walked out of the door with nothing else left to say, and Tony had fought to remain standing.

He had felt it flare up then, that sudden riptide of grief-rage-no, and before he knew it, his hand had coiled into a fist and smashed into the nearest mirror, shattering it into a thousand pieces, a soundless roar escaping his throat, his mind a blissful haze of pain, and nothing else.

* * *

Of course, some eight hours later, his comm has gone haywire in the middle of godforsaken auction, and Tony had legged it, so to speak, to the southeastern coast of the Pacific, pushing the suit to the outer limits of its speed, and found Steve and Nat trying to wrestle a fucking kraken.

* * *

So it turned out, that day was not the day Tony fucked his teammate and irreparably damaged the Avengers. Instead, it turned out, that was the day Tony helped the surface world establish diplomatic relations with, ah, Atlantis, apparently.

Because that was a thing.

Steve found him once more, this time out on the terrace of the Santiago Ritz-Carlton’s penthouse suite, in drawstring pants and not much else, freshly showered, nursing a scotch, staring out blankly over the cityscape.

“Hey.”

Tony glanced at him, and flicked a brief smile in his direction. “Hey yourself.”

“How was the party?”

Tony barked a laugh. “Terrible. The fish staged a revolt.”

“You don't look too cut up about it.” Steve’s voice was a rich low murmur, and now Tony could feel the slow drag of his gaze, touching his bare skin like a physical caress.

“I'm, ah. Adaptable. Flexible.”

“Is that right.”

Come here and find out, Tony wanted to say, but the words had dried up in his throat. He drained the rest of his scotch.

“I thought you were gonna find some company.”

Tony set the glass down, and balanced his elbows back against the balcony’s railing, hips tilted forward. He knew what he looked like.

“I thought I just did,” Tony replied, more than a little hoarse. Steve’s eyes were blue points of fire, dark and intent, and they stayed there, balanced on the edge of a blade.

It was the silence that broke him — Tony openeed his mouth before his brain could stop him, said, “I wouldn’t have— I wasn’t planning to—” He sucked in an unsteady breath. Go for broke, said the very very stupid voice in his head, and Tony said, “It’s you. It’s only you, Steve. There’s nobody else, not for me, you might as well—” know the truth, he tried to say, but between one breath and the next, Steve strode up to him, caught the base of his skull with a grip tighter than death, slotted their open mouths together, and his touch obliterated the rest of the world.

Which was just as well. They'd never been very good at words, and Tony heard what Steve hadn't yet said, wouldn't say, not until the next morning, with the air around them quiet and still, dawn's light filtering in past light, linen curtains in a soft wash of gold — “There's nobody else for me either. Nobody but you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Namor was _not_ invited to the wedding, but the wedding cake _was_ shaped like a giant kraken, because Tony had an awful, awful sense of humor, and Steve's brain had gone too mushy from all the new love hormones to stop him. 
> 
> (World Weekly News splashed an article about Captain America's secret tentacle dick the day after the wedding.)  
> ((Tony got it framed for their bedroom.))
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, remember to hit kudos <3  
> find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur


End file.
